Silent Ashes
by morethanjustastory
Summary: After the country tried to burn his sister at the stake for being a witch, Prince Arran fled the court, renouncing his claim to the thrown and forcing it upon his brother Lucas. Three years later, a scandal forces Arran to return or to lose everything he swore to protect, but Lucas is not ready to give up the crown, challenging his brother to the first Selection in generations.
1. People Disappear All the Time

People Disappear All the Time

"Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,

say could that lad be I?"

-Robert Louis Stevenson

* * *

Two soldiers trembled in their armor, metal scraping against metal, their bones rattling like a toy to amuse a child. Each had their helms drawn over their faces, as if it could protect them from ghosts seeking retribution for the wrong done to them. Duty kept their feet shuffling inch by inch, but superstition reached out his talons, sinking them deep in to the men's shoulders. "Are you certain this is where the queen told us to go?" The taller of the two asked, the tremor in his voice growing with each passing second. His fingers skimmed the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw it on some tortured soul that could not buy their fare into the afterlife. Who would provide coin for a witch, after all? Let them rot in purgatory, that would serve them right for their curses upon all of Draiocha. A just punishment, and accusations promised a just reward, for humans were a brutal species. The macabre seduced even the purist of hearts, and watching a disliked neighbor burn at the stake conjured joy no potion could imitate. By the end of the day, men and women alike danced upon the ashes of the fallen, sharing a drink with folk they despised more than heap of bone on the pyre, some new scheme formulating in their devious minds.

The stockier knight's head bobbed, maintaining a grip on his stead's reins to make escape quicker. "Frieth, Evander. She said we'd find him in Frieth." He shuddered, his mind unable to grasp how a man could survive for three years alone in the ruins of their founding city. The dense air settled over his shoulders and Evander yanked his helmet from his head for a breath of unrecycled oxygen. "Maybe we should tell her we couldn't find him?" the other offered, eying the woods with unease, "Surely not finding the prince at all would be better than finding him driven mad by the witches, or even slaughtered as the beginning of their revenge. Killing the heir to the throne does sound like one way to disembowel all of Draiocha."

The pair passed a crumbling structure, moss infiltrating the cracks in the stone, a bandage over a gaping wound, an attempt to heal something far too broken. Yet the rubble opened up into a clearing, hints of cement still burrowed beneath the invasive wildlife. "Perhaps the spirits have gotten to you, Anslem," the taller Evander said, eyes wide, incredulity seeping into every corner of his tone, "The queen will have our heads if we don't find him. You know what she said, _no one would miss us._" Their boots crunched against the stone and dirt as they continued their cautious steps throughout the city, and Anslem protested no further, though each passing moment left him more uneasy than the last. No witches had sprung out at them yet, but it was only a matter of time.

As they rounded a corner, the smell of burning wood permeated the air in a thick cloud of fear and Evander stiffened, shooting a worried glance in his friend's direction, "It's them," he mouthed. This was it, they'd die in a realm no one dared enter, a feast for witches starved from their revenge. The ghosts intended to roast them as they had been. His heart pounded in his chest, an erratic thump that left him gasping for breath, but smoke contaminated anything his lungs could drag in, and Anslem raised his hand, insisting the taller man stop. "I'll go investigate, stay here, if I don't come back in five minutes, run." He started forward but paused to glance over his shoulder, his face twisted like a mother who'd lost her son to the horrors of war, "And don't forget me, the rest of the world will, but you cannot. Or it will be as though I never existed at all."

Evander opened his mouth to protest, but no words passed his tongue. Truthfully, he'd never been a good liar, empty promises never settled well on his shoulders, and he could not, in good conscious, tell his friend that he didn't want Anslem to be the one to go. Fear kept his feet deep in the dirt and his limbs stiff. So, the stocky knight continued on, his boots leaving deep imprints in the unrestrained, vivacious grass. He followed the smell and the distant noise of a crackling flame. "It's just Prince Arran," he murmured, sucking in copious amounts of air only to expel it after a few seconds. "It's just Prince Arran. The witches are gone, _the witches are gone." _Trees the size of the castle in Kreonis loomed above the knight, slowly itching towards him, their canopies during into coverage to hide the atrocities he feared would befall him from the rest of the world.

A honeyed voice floated before him, silken and dripping with sugar. His ears lapped it up, the soft hum enough to convince him of the owner's beauty without so much of an uttered word from her lips. Anslem's racing heart tugged him towards the sound, his eyes begging to be privy to the Siren's song.

_No. _His hand shot down to his blade and he unsheathed it, the dulling metal catching the glimmer of sunlight between the leaves. "Now, where's that witch?" he asked himself, his pulse beating at a completely different rhythm than the unseasoned warrior was used to, though the adrenaline helped him stay focused rather than collapsing into a bubbling mess. He stumbled forward, and panic consumed his body as his sloped eyes latched onto a woman's figure inside the remains of a hut. She stood before a pot, tossing herbs into the boiling water while a flame crackled beneath it, a melodious tune threatening to seduce Anslem once more. Fire seemed to blaze from her skull as well, thick curls licking at her chin, kindling stuck in a few places. Her frame remained hidden behind a thick olive cloak, but the knight had no doubt that it was as captivating as the rest of her features.

He shook his head. _Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. She will kill you if she has the chance. _Steel growing heavy in his palms, his hands shook as he raised his blade, prepared to skewer the supernatural woman and send her straight to Hell if that's where she was to go, "Be gone, witch!" He cried, and the woman let out a strangled cry, her body jerking away from the knight and the herbs slipping from her grasp, the entire stem falling into the pot. Her hands stayed up, a similar expression of panic mixed with confusion painted across her appealing features. She took a step away from Anslem, her voice raised louder than necessary, "Please," she begged, and the knight's knees wobbled. Some talented witch she was for she had him under his spell with nothing but a word. Yet, for Evander, he refused to crack. "Please," the witch repeated, even louder this time, "I've done nothing."

A frown twitched at the man's lips, his mind churning to catch up with his eyes and ears. There was something familiar about the witch – one could not say Draiocha was filled with redheads – and that voice…he'd heard it before. Anslem took a step forward, his arm burning from the strain of holding up his weapon for so long, when realization suddenly kicked in. Three years prior, the Princess Marsali had been burned at the stake while a bag covered her head. A simple courtesy for the second born of King Myron and Queen Nerissa, and yet, by the time the bag burned, she was far too gone to truly identify. Wracked with grief and anger, Prince Arran had recoiled away from the nation, apparently to Frieth, and left the future kingship to the younger prince, Lucas. Yet this woman was unmistakably the mad princess, the devil's daughter, but she should be dead. His voice shook like his hands, like his knees, like his entire body, "Either you're a ghost, milady, or you fooled all of Draiocha."

Anslem's focus remained on the princess, his ears unfocused and his mind clouded with confusion. Perhaps that was the reason, or maybe a sheer talent, but before he could so much as blind or acknowledge the presence of someone else, his blade clattered to the ground, his arm burning from a new impact, and a sharp metal pressed against his throat while a strong grip latched onto his stocky form. "No one will believe you, lad," a new voice hissed, his deep voice low and imbued with an unveiled threat. Anslem twisted his wrists to raise his hands, squeezing his eyes shut and praying this was nothing but a figment of his imagination. That when he opened them again he'd find himself in the barracks, Evander snoring beside him. Instead, when he peered one open, he watched Princess Marsali's Savros eyes flicker between him and a figure behind him.

"Arran!" she shouted, and Anslem's body went slack in his apparent prince's grasp, "Arran, there's another one of them, let him go." With an indignant huff, the hold on the knight loosened and he sucked in a deep breath, wheeling around to find a flabbergasted Evander lingering in the threshold. Prince Arran did not lower his blade, even if it was no longer pressed against Anslem's throat, instead, he brandished the sharp point in a circle at both knights in a silent warning. The stocky man finally found his attention drawn to the runaway prince, and the resemblance was unmistakable. His red curls had grown out more and dirt added more than three years too his sharp features, but nonetheless, he was as handsome as he had been when he left the castle. The shaggy stained undershirt seeming to fit his frame better than elaborate doublets, and a shadow of a beard dusted across his jaw. A matching pair of piercing blue eyes stared back at him, no recognition for the lowly, disposable knight, nothing but hostility and apprehension glared back at him.

Evander stepped forward, gathering his courage and vocal cords faster than Anslem, if the other knight could even do such a thing anymore. His cadence started slow, attempting to control the open flame suffocating the room and wielding a blade, and he had the deadly training to use it, "Your Highnesses, my name is Sir Evander Godfrey and this is my companion Sir Anslem Shiveley, your –" he began to stutter, his nerves getting the better of him. Before Queen Nerissa, the two of them sweat through their underclothes, nearly pissed their pants, too. Neither had a way with words, and neither had the finesse to speak to people as dignified as the man who was meant to rule their country in the coming years. "Y-your…" Evander tried again, and Prince Arran grinded his teeth together, seizing the knight's failure as an opportunity to speak for himself.

"I don't give a damn who you are," he grated and Princess Marsali rolled her eyes, her arms crossing over her chest with a huff. Her lips parted as she seemed to prepare herself for a counter argument against her brother, but without so much as glancing her way, he raised a finger, to which the red-haired witch raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to the side, a displeased expression settling onto her features. Arran ignored it for a time, "What are you doing here."

Anslem regained his spine and finished for his friend, "Your grace, your mother sent us. You've been ordered to return to court." The prince's twin sister's arms dropped and she pulled her cloak tighter around her body at the mention of the very people who tried to execute her for a crime neither of the knights were sure she'd committed. And while they'd hoped the news would soothe the prince's temper, it seemed to only aggravate him further.

Like a feral beast striding towards his prey, Arran closed the distance between them, "Arran," Marsali attempted to get his attention but he pressed on, his neck curled to where his Savos eyes bore into the knight's simple mud brown. "Brother!" the princess raised her voice higher, sterner, and Prince Arran twisted his head to look her way, finally reigning in his anger long enough to listen to reason, "No man concerned for their soul would come here without a reason, and to see if a princess they had no reason to believe was still alive still lived would certainly not be cause for the superstitious, and after all the work mother did to help us escape, she's not going to simply slaughter us now," calculating azure irises skimmed over Anslem and Evander's form, and a new expression flooded in, pity, perhaps? "She would especially not entrust these fools with that task. They want something."

Flashing Anslem a tight lipped, inauthentic smile, Arran created a bit more distance between them, brushing some dirt off of the knight's shoulders before clamping down on them, "That's precisely what I want to know." His fingers curled, his grip tightening, "Why am I summoned back to court?"

Evander spoke again and Arran nearly started, too absorbed in the stocky knight to remember the taller one, though he slipped back into a dangerous but easy stance, "The queen did not tell us, you're right, they would not trust fools like us with that information, though before we left, we heard a rumor that King Myron was overturning your renouncement of the throne. I believe he wants to make you his heir again."

* * *

**Helloooo welcome to my new story. Since the information was not in this chapter because I wanted to post it today but I'm getting really freaking tired, I will give a brief overview of how this selection is going to work but it will be clearer next chapter. **

**There's a law in Draiocha that allows a prince to challenge another prince's status as heir to the throne. This law not only requires the other prince to prove himself worthier (while the first one gets to do nothing), but it begins a Selection. A girl from each major city in the country comes to compete for either one of the princes, in this case Arran or Lucas, and also has to prove **_**herself **_**a worthy queen. The Selection is not used in every generation, sometimes there are arranged marriages, sometimes kings find love, but the Selection is used to tip the scales. The prince that finds a queen they not only love, but one that will serve the country well, stands a much better chance of being king. It ensures that they will have a wise advisor and can secure future lines for the royal family. **

**As this chapter was only an introduction, there are still bits of the plot I didn't talk about here, but you can find more information on my profile and feel free to ask me any questions! I am more than happy to answer them. The form for the SYOC is also on my profile, this is set in the past, though in a completely fictional world, so we're talking medieval…renaissance…etc. **

**I sure hope I'm not missing anything, I'm sorry if I am, I'm nearly falling asleep at my computer (so like I haven't even read over what I've written…whoops). **

**That's all I got for now!**

**-Hailey **


	2. Who Would Ever Want to be King?

Who Would Ever Want to be King?

"Revolutionaries wait  
For my head on a silver plate,  
Just a puppet on a lonely string."

-Coldplay

* * *

Boots tapped against the polished tile flooring, one after the other, rising in cadence. Lucas restrained himself from breaking out into a run, always maintaining one foot on the ground, but the tension in his shoulders and the furrow between his brows exposed his emotions to the world. The servants looked on from the corridors, slunk back into the dark corners of the eerily lit castle. News traveled fast among the staff despite the vast size of the walls around them, hidden passageways to avoid contact with the nobility enabled it to be so. Lucas himself had weaved through them in prior years at the encouragement of his elder brother, Arran. Arran. Always the risk taker, always the first to draw his sword should the opportunity present itself, always causing some sort of raucous in Kreonis, Tyriens, and even Vanir. But now, for three years, not a word of him, not even so much as a whisper of a brawny, handsome fellow with hair like blazing fire and eyes like thinning ice.

The crowd might as well have tied up the elder prince on the pyre with Marsali for both of the twins died that day.

Lucas' scowl deepened. Three long years he followed his parent's command, straightened his spine, drowned himself with work to comprehend the very beginnings of how to run a nation, and how to do it _better_ than his father. Three long years he reconciled himself with the fact that King Myron had caused the death of two of his own children. The young prince's anger festered like an untreated wound, the infection spreading fast through his veins while bitter pus seeped from his lips. Lucas knew it would one day be his own bane, but he failed to stop feeding into it. He indulged in that anger, not as Arran once had. No, Lucas dared not draw his weapon on anyone, or truly speak his mind for he refused to wear his heart on his sleeve. It left him vulnerable, exposed the cracks in his carefully manicured façade. Instead, he watched and waited, taking his turns, moving his pieces, biding his time.

The tapping continued, and a door swung open.

A few ambassadors lurked around the king like starved wolves awaiting their scraps. Sooner or later, they'd tear Myron to pieces, and Lucas could not say he'd mourn his father. He'd loved him once, long ago, as a starry-eyed boy wishing to one day make the man sitting upon the throne proud. Never had he pictured himself sitting on that very cushion, that had always been promised to the elder Savos prince, and when Arran vanished, his parents dangled that role under his nose, their honeyed lips whispering promises into his vulnerable ears, and he foolishly bought into them. It seemed they were empty promises. Not even just out of reach, no. King Myron and Queen Nerissa ripped that bone completely out of his sight.

Lord Nikolaus of Tyriens had told him that morning.

"The Ambassadors called a vote," the little man had said, an intrigued smile toying at his lips. He raised his chalice to his mouth as though to conceal the expression with a sip of blood of the grape imported from some far off foreign land.

"And?" Lucas fiddled with his thumbs, his heart thumping against his ribcage. Blue eyes watched the man who had adored his brother and sister before the Trials, had even aided in their tutoring when they stayed in his family's estate. Arran and Marsali were practically that man's own children, he'd treated them as such anyways.

The smile slipped off of Nikolaus' features, a rare solemn and apologetic expression taking its place, "They've called to reinstate your brother as the heir. The vote passed, the king made it so."

Lucas drew himself out of the memory and honed his attention in on his father. Once a strong, proud, and handsome man – if the stories proved true – Myron Savos, the sixth of his name and king of all Draiocha, was now a mere shadow of that man. His stern features thinned until they coated his bones in a sheet of white parchment, his cheeks hollowed, and there was an odd glimmer in his eyes. Rumors flitted around the nation that the Witch Trials drove him to insanity: a mad king for a mad princess. And yet Lucas had watched as the ambassadors ripped his spine from him, vertebrae by vertebrae. The throne Myron had built for himself crumbled to ash and remnants floated in the air, the bitter taste serving as a reminder for all he'd lost and all that could've been.

Yet he'd dug his own grave, and sooner or later the people would force him to lie in it.

His father ripped his eyes from the Ambassadors, finding Lucas marching towards him. He waved the men off, and though they'd begun to scatter, the prince didn't wait. He raised a finger, his lips drawn back in a near snarl, "It was one mistake. I made _one _mistake." Lord Nikolaus paused, eyebrows disappearing beneath his mop of dark blond hair, and Lord Tristian watched with a certain smugness Lucas had no doubt his older brother would've punched right off his face. "You don't even know if Arran is _alive_. He abandoned the crown, abandoned his familyand yet you deem him a better candidate for the throne than me?" A cobalt flame consumed the prince's usually peaceful irises, and even his mother appeared taken aback by the sudden outburst.

Lord Florian of Yaeil opened his pompous mouth, his face flushed from his morning cup of wine, "Your Highness, I do believe –"

With a raise of his hand, the prince cut him off, "All due respect, Lord Duvet, I was not speaking to you," the light from the chandeliers hanging above them danced across Lucas' dark auburn curls, accentuating the red all the Savos children were famous for. Matched with the dark expression, his resemblance to his elder brother was unmistakable. Florian's mouth flopped shut with an indignant sigh for he'd learned not to challenge the temper of one Savos boy, he need not learn that lesson again. King Myron watched his son, his frailty barely concealed behind the crown. Skeletal fingers curled around the arms of his throne as though he attempted to absorb the strength of his ancestors, and his pale lips parted, some pitiful excuse formulating in his poisoned mind.

Yet before he could so much as utter a word, the click of the doorknob and the sudden bang of the doors colliding against the walls echoed through the chamber, followed soon after by a familiar deep voice that made Lucas stop cold. "Would someone like to explain to me what the _fuck _is going on?"

With a glance over his shoulder, the second prince's mouth dried and his jaw went slack. There, standing before him, was a man coated in dirt, his clothes hardly acceptable for court, and yet undoubtedly his older brother. The vibrant color of his hair had always been enough of a crown for Arran Savos, and even dressed as a commoner, he commanded the attention of the entire room. Soon enough, the news would spread like wildfire and their two remaining sisters would storm into the room. But until then, Lucas gawked. Arran's shoulders were tense, his fists curled at his side as he met their father's eyes for the first time in three years. A dense air settled around them as Nerissa and Myron's eldest child ripped open a haphazardly closed wound. He did not bow before the king, did not so much as dip his head in respect – any he had was lost in the fire that killed Marsali, or even before then when the order for their sister's arrest had been placed.

Myron hauled himself to his feet, taking a step forward to get a better glimpse at his son as his vision began to fail, "Arran?" he asked, and a muscle in the runaway prince's jaw clenched, "my son, is that truly you?" The king raised a hand out towards him and Arran recoiled.

"Don't you dare touch me," he spat, a hand extended to mark a barrier between them and blue eyes burning with a hatred far more intense than Lucas could ever imagine. The carefree, though sometimes aggressive, boy the court knew was gone, and they could not find so much of a trace of him in the man before them. A flicker of unmerited hurt passed over Myron's features and he glanced back at the Ambassadors, searching for some sort of support that this wasn't a mistake. He found it in Lord Tristian, the one Lucas had come to convince himself was the root of all of this. The Ambassador of Corrac gave the king a curt nod, and Arran intervened before any words could pass between them, "I'm here upon mother's demand, but I want to know why."

Color returned to Lucas' cheeks as he began to accustom himself with his brother's sudden appearance, "That makes two of us," he said, projecting his voice so that he would not be ignored. Arran's head swung around, eyes wide as they settled upon Lucas. His throat bobbed and the fire calmed, but the younger prince hardened and as it seemed their father was still at a loss for an explanation, he turned his accusations on his brother, "So, after three years without a word, mother calls and you just come running back?"

"Lucas…" The king tried to reprimand, but his opinion lost much of its weight with anyone and both sons ignored him entirely.

Arran's guard slipped back up and he forced a tone of nonchalance; however, the prince had never been skilled at concealing his emotions. Him and Marsali bore their emotions for the world to see and left the task of trickery to him and Lysandra, and it was a burden the two younger royals tried to bear for they did not have the same luxury of running from their problems. Lucas' callousness had caught his brother by surprise, but he seemed to quickly come to terms with it, one he may have expected but still stung, "It was that or be run through by her guards."

A bitter chuckle reverberated in the back of Lucas' throat, and his head twisted to the side, "By the gods, Arran, we both know that would never happen." Even if they tried, Arran's skill with the blade rivaled that of a Draiochan regiment. He was always the brawn to Lucas' brains, the first to demand combat while his younger brother strategized, allowed the country to consider him a malleable fool. Better to be underestimated than overestimated, he'd learned that lesson from his mother.

"Perhaps," Arran folded his hands in front of him, standing his ground.

"So, why then?"

"I was not quite in the mood to have her send capable men after me. Those two blubbering fools were enough to last a lifetime." A shadow passed across both prince's faces as they examined the other. Lucas, dressed in all of his finery, the perfect image of royalty, and Arran, his admirable sinew only exacerbated by the years away, forced to survive on his own. Two worthy opponents, the nation would say, each with their own personal method of combat.

It seemed the news had reached his sister's ears at last because the doors swung open once more, Lysandra's skirts swishing around her storming feet as her lady, and Tristian's wife, Guinevere, hurried to keep pace. Arran followed Lucas' gaze and the noise, turning around so the princess could lay her piercing eyes upon him for the first time in an eternity of sorrow she'd fallen into. A ragged gasp passed through her lips and she covered her mouth with her palm, staggering back in shock. Guinevere reached out to grab her in hopes of stabilizing her lady. "The rumors were true," Lysandra finally mustered, tears brimming in her azure irises, "You're really back, you're really alive…" She blinked furiously, her flaming hair whipping around as she turned to Lucas to affirm that she wasn't hallucinating.

Arran seemed to be in a similar place, his hands were no longer curled into fists, though his fingers shook just enough for Lucas to notice. For the first time, the younger prince realized that just as they all figured they'd never see Arran again, their brother had never anticipated facing them. "Lysa," he whispered, his shoulders slouched as their father's presence vanished from his cares.

A single tear trailed down the princess' cheeks, yet the promise of more spoke plainly across her pale face. She stumbled a few paces in his direction, diminishing the space between them to only a few feet rather than an entire room. Drinking up his features, Lysandra's attentions never broke from him. Then a crack ricocheted against the walls, and Arran's head jerked to the side, the blood rushing to just beneath his skin in the shape of a hand. The very same hand Lysandra still had raised. Arran touched the mark with the pads of his fingers and bowed his head slightly, "Okay, I deserved that –"

"You _son of a bitch!" _Lysandra screeched, all regal teachings of elegance tossed out the window. She placed her palms on his chest and shoved him back, deaf to Myron and Lucas' attempts to quell her. Arran stumbled at the sudden exertion of pressure with a defeated expression, not so much as trying to hold their sister back. Her tears flowered faster, turrets strong enough to wash away a village, "I thought you were dead! You let me believe it. Not a single letter from you, nothing to at least tell me you hadn't gone and gotten yourself killed, or even done it yourself." Arran had the decency to look ashamed, he couldn't even look her in the eyes as he took the verbal onslaught, and didn't bother to stop her as she'd begun to pound her fists against his chest. "I," she breathed between sobs, "hate you!"

The rest of the court present watched with wide eyes, some of the ambassadors making mental notes to avoid crossing the princess, and eventually Lysandra tired and clutched to Arran's shirt like it was her life force, like if she let go he'd vanish again and this time never return. Her face burrowed into his shoulder and Arran wrapped his arms around their sister. Something tugged in Lucas' gut, some childish desire to join in on the embrace, to feel the comforting grasp of the man he'd so admired years ago.

But under the circumstances, Arran's return tasted of betrayal, and try as he might to swallow it, and push it aside, it threatened to come back up. Lucas bit his lip. Formidable opponents they were, indeed, and perhaps the past three years had given the younger of the princes a slight edge over the other. Steeling his resolve, Lucas shifted his body back to the king who'd retreated back into the sanctuary of his throne as he watched two of his children. "Father," he said, addressing the king for the first time since Arran had rejected his touch. Myron tilted his head in Lucas' direction, balancing his chin on the top of his fist, and Lysandra untangled herself from their brother. Two pairs of Savos eyes latched on the man that created them, while the firstborn's were focused on Lucas himself. Yet he didn't allow himself to be deterred, "If you truly believe Arran to be better suited for the kingship, at least allow me the chance to prove you wrong." His stomach reeled, knowing full well what his next words condemned himself and his brother to do.

"And what do you propose, your highness?" Lord Tristian Doreau asked, his tone mocking while his attentions flickered between the prince and his wife, still standing by the door. His hauteur remained well concealed behind a thin veil of polite mannerisms, but private conversations and a former friendship exposed the inner workings of the ambassador's mind. Being the youngest to come into the position, the only other Tristian feared was Jon Cossa, if only for the rumors of murder that Myron blinded himself to. Jon of Illyria, the man anyone would be stupid to underestimate or consider themselves capable of defying. To everyone's relief, he had not made an appearance.

So, Lucas ignored the undertones of hostility and finally met Arran's eyes. A look of realization dawned on the older prince as he managed to decipher his brother's plans. His eyes widened, pleading, and his head shook just enough for Lucas to notice. But the one they called a puppet clapped his hands together, "Well, Lord Doreau, I figured a Selection would be customary, would it not?"

King Myron leaned forward in his throne, "You mean to go against the ambassadors' rulings, challenge your brother to the throne, and initiate a Selection?" The noblemen shot looks between them, some like Tristian and Kerys Rouai of Astaveron who did not bother hiding their dislike for the second Savos prince frowned in blatant opposition, where others like Florian and Lord Philippe Levasseur of Liraces, men with flairs for extravagance and the dramatic, seemed giddy at the prospect of the first Selection in numerous years. Queen Nerissa, after all, had been a political alliance given Myron had no brothers. Then, there was Nikolaus. The clever little man's expression remained ever so unreadable, though the prince knew better than to doubt something brewed beneath the surface.

Feeling a surge of confidence, Lucas rolled his eyes, "Yes, your majesty, that is indeed what I said."

Myron scrutinized his two sons before falling back into a more relaxed position, "Very well, I accept your proposition," he waved a hand at one of the servants, "Send news to the cities at once. The Selection will commence as soon as possible."

* * *

Later that night, Arran indulged himself in a chalice of a rather copious amount of alcohol, the queen of Draiocha unable to tear her eyes from her missing son. Irritation ticked at the corners of the prince's lips and Nerissa knew it to be a sign of a storm brewing within the boy. "He thinks I want the throne, believes me to be undermining him for something I renounced _years _ago," he raised his eyes to his mother, "Why did you have to call me back. I have no desire to be king, you know that. Lucas _knew _that but now he despises me, considers me an enemy." Tipping back the cup, he washed down the hurt, letting the wine settle in his stomach and blur the emotions swimming inside of him at a volume where they drew dangerously close to drowning his organs.

"Myron demanded it," she said, reaching out to place her hand over his, relishing in the feeling of her firstborn son's skin. The last time she'd spoken with him, she, like him, assumed it to be the last. Their plan was to hide Marsali and Arran away until the world forgot about them and they could sneak onto a ship and travel to some foreign country, "My options were limited, it was either send some men to retrieve you discretely, or he'd send out the army in search for you, and it would only be a matter of time before the men pieced together where you and your sister had been hiding. You know just as well as I what would happen if they found Marsali. There would be nothing we could do to protect her."

He chuckled humorlessly, bowing his head as though he found the grains of the wooden table captivating. "He'd have her burned. No bag to fool the world this time, and I do believe I'd get a lashing for concealing her at best."

Nerissa winced, her contempt for her husband growing by the second. A foolish girl she'd been all those years ago, falling underneath his charm. Myron as a young man was just as much of a witch as their daughter, his confidence standing firm, but years of paranoia wore him down. The demands of his people settling into a weight he could not bear and left him vulnerable to the whims of the ambassadors. Their corruption seeped into his marrow and took the reins. The king of Draiocha now ruled by the pressures of the court, not for what would best benefit the nation as a whole. Her heart twisting in her chest, Nerissa poured herself some wine, "What of her now?"

Arran scratched the back of his neck, "I went into town before we left, bought her one of those wigs that older women with their thinning hair believe they need. To hide the red, it tends to give everything a way, doesn't it?" his mother chuckled, knowing the curse of her family's hair quite well, and the prince continued, a small shadow of a smile toying on his face, "She made up a pseudonym – Maeve – and is currently staying in the outskirts of Kreonis. She knows to stay hidden, only come in sight when absolutely necessary. People won't remember her face well, but with they might with the hair."

The amusement washed away, replaced with a somberness the Savos family had become far too well acquainted with, "She misses everyone, dreadfully," his hand wrapped around the handle of the pitcher and he poured a generous amount of wine into his cup, his face scrunched up and his head shook, "_Despises_ the thought that everyone thinks her dead. But what can she do?" He tipped it back, letting the bitter liquid slip down his throat, silence hovering over them as he swallowed. His blue eyes shifted out of focus as he fell back into the memories of the past three years, "If she surfaces, King Myron will kill her, and any new person knowing about her heightens her risk of discovery. It's a miserable existence, mother, one where you're dead to the world but news of your survival would only bring more heartache. Living with that nearly killed the both of us."

Nerissa swirled her remaining wine around in the cup, busying herself with some other motion to prevent her mind from dwelling on the suffering her husband forced upon her children. Off in his own little world, Arran said nothing else for several minutes, and even under the influence of several cups of alcohol, the tension in his shoulders never quite faded. It gave the queen the opportunity to reacquaint herself with her son as she'd tried to focus on his words rather than his features. Thankfully, he had no new visible scars, nothing to show a threat to his life, even if he still bore the mark along his right cheek. But scars were not always on the surface. The energetic, troublesome glimmer in his eyes that shone like a mine rich with aquamarine had all but vanished, they'd hardened into glaciers, strengthened and sharpened by the horrors of the world. Staring into them sent a shiver down her spine for glaciers were a rather inhospitable environment. Of course, the changes in him were not all bad. After a bath, Nerissa learned that the years had been kind to Arran's features. He'd filled out his tall, lanky form and had grown into his nose. She'd always known him to be a handsome boy, before the Witch Trials, Marsali had teased him for constantly needing to swat away skirts. She smiled softly, reaching out to tuck one of his curls behind his ear, and in the process drawing him from the recesses of his mind.

His brows furrowed and he tilted his head to the side, voicing the question that plagued his mind since the moment he stepped out of Frieth, "Why reject Lucas as the heir now? What happened?"

Nerissa shifted in her seat, gathering up her hair and draping it all over one shoulder, "The official story, and the one Myron insists on telling me is that Lucas did not quite demonstrate the courage and aptitude for the kingship. Too soft hearted, they all said." The irony of it all left Arran scoffing, but he continued following his mother's story, "Of course, then there was the fact that Lord Tristian found Lucas and his wife, Lady Guinevere, together. No one aside from Lucas, Lady Guinevere, and Lord Tristian knows precisely what happened, and of course, Lord Tristian's ideal world would be one without Lucas in it, and Lady Guinevere refuses to speak of the matter, so the only person that truly holds weight with is your father. But of course, that's all that matters, isn't it?"

Further confusion deepened the lines between the prince's eyes, "Wait, but weren't Lucas and Tristian inseparable as children? Why the sudden change of heart?"

The queen shrugged and pushed herself to her feet, "I couldn't tell you, but don't worry your pretty little head about it, alright?" Arran followed suit and embraced his mother, the smell of oranges lingering around her soothing him like nothing else could, "I've missed you so much, my son. Now, go get some rest. It seems your days as an unmarried man are numbered. Preparations for the Selection are to commence immediately."

* * *

**Aaaaand there we go! Chapter 2! To be clear, there was a time jump. I didn't feel like talking about the journey from Frieth to Kreonis, figured that would be boring. I also apologize for any typos, I may go in and fix them later, but for now this is what we've got. **

**For those of you who don't know, on my profile I have a story trailer that I made posted, so please feel free to take a look at that if you wish! I'm quite happy with how it came out. **

**Now lastly, I'm gonna keep this AN brief, now that my exams are over, I will ask for those of you who haven't finished up your characters to do so relatively quickly so I can get this story going. **

**Thanks so much, I hope you enjoyed!**

**-Hailey**


	3. The Grace and Beauty of a Flower

The Grace and Beauty of a Flower

"Do you hear the whispers?

_(belladonna belladonna)_

they talk of a new queen rising."

-g.s.

* * *

Seraphine's body lurched forward, ripping her eyes from the vast landscape of rolling hills around her, and her stomach rolled. She pressed a palm against the side of the carriage, praying that if she pressed hard enough the walls around her would expand, and she could gasp fresh air into her lungs. But, as she expected, it all stayed the same. The close quarters stifled her comfort, and each bump reminded her far too much of the chariots that flooded through the streets of her home.

"Apologies, m'lady!" the coachman called back to her, his thicker accent marking him as from the north, likely Galla given his profession and acumen with horses, "Must've hit a dip in the road." The blonde girl stuck her head out the window, assuring the driver that it was quite alright while using the opportunity to feel the wind nipping at her cheeks. Oh, how much she wished she could've just ridden a horse. To break free of the confines of the stifling little box and ride the rest of the way to the castle, the sun beating down against her skin and a breeze ruffling her golden hair. Instead, she twiddled her thumbs and waited for Kreonis to appear off in the horizon, wallowing in the thought of _was she betraying Jasper?_

The brief answer and most accurate one in her mind: yes. Joining a competition for a prince's hand in marriage, for the opportunity to become queen left a bitter taste in her mouth like cow's milk gone sour. A frown toyed at the corners of her lips, the temptation to run away or shrink into herself growing more and more apparent with each passing moment.

Her coachman began to speak again as he had throughout the journey, his kind heart exposed through his determination to make the ride, no matter how short compared to the other Selected's, as pleasant as possible. He'd tell her stories as they passed through towns familiar to him, and he seemed genuinely concerned about her wellbeing. It was more than she could say she expected coming from the palace. King Myron's court was never in the nature of coming to other's aid. "You can see the spires of the palace from here, m'lady!"

She craned her neck out the window, and sure enough, off in the distance, the castle crept into focus, dark and menacing more like something out of a fantasy novel rather than their reality. And yet it was their reality, wasn't it? Runaway princes, sorceress princess – red haired dames locked up in their towers while dragons in the form of men prowled the grounds to keep them in, and others out.

As they pulled through the city gates of Kreonis, the carriage slowed and Seraphine's chartreuse eyes scrutinized her country's capital. The layout functioned much like a target, the outermost ring practically slums, spinsters begging on the street and a man clutching a misshapen hand close to his chest, his face contorted into an expression of pain. Seraphine almost banged on the side to tell the coachman to stop, but she remained frozen, stuck in her seat. These people watched the royal horses trot by with hungry eyes, and rather than spit at her direction, a look of awe dawned across their features. Perhaps a Selection would get them what they needed, they thought. She could see it in their faces as she saw it in the impoverished of her own home.

Draiocha was in desperate need of a change of leadership and either they would get one through this competition, or she feared more citizens would flee to Dagda's revolutionaries.

The carriage pressed further into the cities, and through each ring of the target, Seraphine noticed the progressive influx in luxurious living styles. Slums turned into quaint homes and shops into noble residents with their admittedly beautiful architecture. Then, at the center of it all, at the bullseye, the palace continued to grow in size as they grew nearer. It loomed above the entire city, the highest building in Kreonis and she wondered if maybe all of the nation. "This is it," she mumbled quietly to herself, too low for the coachman to hear, as she attempted to see past the threatening beauty of her new home for however long the princes would deem her worthy.

Her mouth went dry at the thought, and her heart began to beat erratically. Throughout the journey it was easy to forget she was expected to strive for the queenship, to seduce either Prince Lucas or Prince Arran while she hardly knew anything about them. The Savos family, it seemed, liked to keep their secrets. Two princes, three princesses, all with vibrant red hair, a rarity in the country, and hardly a single story could be confirmed as true. In fact, the only real thing the public knew for certain was that Princess Marsali had died in the frantic burning of the witches, wrongfully so, or so Seraphine thought, and Prince Arran had run off into isolation where no one heard of him for the next three years. Now, she'd have to face the lot of them, them, the queen, the king, and the ambassadors, without knowing so much as their features beyond color. Though, Lord Kerys Rouai she did know. Her city's ambassador returned quite frequently, unable to satiate his bloodthirst and desire for the games in the capital.

She bit down on her thumb nail, not chewing but simply pressing her teeth against the keratin. Lost in thought, she barely registered the carriage slowing to a stop until the door swung open and her coachman held out his hand to help her step down. Quietly thanking him, she stood, her legs stiff and aching from the long journey, and hurried down onto the ground.

When she raised her head up, her eyes widened. There, several paces ahead of her, stood two women and a girl, hair blazing. Seraphine stared at them before the little child hiked up her skirts to just above her petite shoes and ran over to her. The other two maintained their distance, the older, Queen Nerissa she gathered, kept her wary eyes on her daughter, while the middle watched the Selected girl herself. A storm of fire and water surrounded her, and all she could do was allow a bright grin onto her features as the young Princess Sela reached her. "Mama says you're one of the Selected," she said with a welcoming, but not entirely authentic smile, "What is your name?"

Princess Lysandra stepped forward, her black gown cut low and embellished with golden jewelry, and yet so fitting for her form, the contrast in hue accentuating her long, straight hair, "Sela, allow the poor girl to come inside, she must be exhausted from the trip, you can meet everyone later."

Sela's grin slipped and Seraphine waved off the comment, "Thank you, but I'll be alright for a moment longer. I am Seraphine Brighton, from Astaveron."

The young girl's mouth dropped to form a small o, and she brushed out imaginary wrinkles from the bodice of her dress, speaking casually, "Astaveron? Have you seen people die, too? In the games?"

Seraphine froze, floundering for words. Her mouth opened and closed idiotically like a fish, as her brain fell behind and failed to formulate sentences, completely caught off guard by the sudden macabre bluntness of the girl, only ten and two years of age. It was the queen's turn to interject as she called out to her daughter sharply, and the girl tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Queen Nerissa closed the distance between them within moments, wrapping a protective arm around her daughter and turning her around to mutter quiet chastisements in her face. "Please forgive her," she said, shooing her off back towards Lysandra, "She's witnessed more executions than I'd care to admit."

As though she understood, Seraphine nodded, but struggled to wrap her mind around it. Her chest ached, perhaps with the memory of death's constant presence, or perhaps because her corset seemed rather tight. Her green eyes flickered back to Lysandra, who seemed to be having a conversation of her own with her younger sister, with a newfound sense of envy. The Princess' dress hung loose around her figure, drawn in only by a velvet belt wrapped around her waist, a far different than most Draiochan women took to. "Please," the Queen's voice knocked the Selected girl out of her stupor, wrapping her dainty hand just above Seraphine's elbow and leading her towards the other two princesses, "Come inside, my daughter, Lysandra, will take you to the other girls."

With another nod, she trailed behind Lysandra. At first, the princess remained silent and Seraphine followed in suit awkwardly, her eyes shifting over to Lysandra's feline-like profile, the sharp slope of her nose, the narrow cerulean eyes. Over time, she wondered if she herself should say something, but the princess seized the opportunity first, "My sister says you are the candidate from Astaveron, Lady Seraphine?" She didn't even pause to speak, didn't move her head, just kept moving forward.

"Yes," Seraphine answered, "Yes, I am." Lysandra's head bobbed and she folded her hands in front of her, thanking one of the servants as the doors opened, without pressing the subject further.

The Selected girl paused in the doorway, her jaw slackened at the sight before her. The interior of the palace was somehow darker than the exterior. Candles burned upon the chandeliers and along the walls, illuminating the walls in an eerie glow. Opulent statues and paintings decorated the walls, all in darker paints, and Seraphine wondered how anyone lived here without an aura of gloom pressing down upon their shoulders. Maybe they didn't? It would explain much of what she still had yet to comprehend.

Lysandra turned around, "Are you coming?" and Seraphine swallowed before following. The princess' calculating eyes remained fixated on the newcomer as they walked, "You have to understand these past few weeks have been rather…chaotic, I apologize if anything is not up to your liking." The blonde girl ripped her gaze from the ceilings and décor to notice the servants scuttling around the castle in haste, though she assumed the chaos had less to do for the preparations being made for the Selected and more from the sudden arrival of a family member presumed dead.

"That's quite alright," Seraphine tilted her head down, the ends of her straw blonde hair falling over her shoulders and into her face, her hands clasped in front of her dress, "I am not too particular, I understand it must be difficult to have seventeen strangers enter your home in hopes of marrying one of your brothers."

A small, nearly humorless chuckle breached the princess' lips and she ran her tongue of her lips, "Yes, I suppose it is," the conversation fell silent for a few moments before Lysandra added, "Forgive me if this is inappropriate of me to say, but I almost never expected my brothers to marry, at least, not before my father found a husband for me and turned to them for more political power. Before Arran left, he had girls swarming him, and he did enjoy indulging in their presence, but nothing sprung from that. And Lucas, well, Lucas cared more about his books than he did the girls that took to him. And now here we are, both of them obligated to marry within the next few months."

The Selected hung onto her words, fueling her curiosity. Lysandra's eyes hardened as she spoke of her father, but seemed to slip off into another world while she spoke of the past. Seraphine couldn't quell her desire to know more about the men, one of whom might be her future husband. "I do not find it inappropriate," Seraphine admitted, though she assumed most would, "I appreciate the candor. I believe it's something we all are in need of these days."

With a final agreeable smile, Lysandra stopped before a door, the voices of other young women here for the same purposes as she, wafting through the wood, "Here we are. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Seraphine."

"And you," the blonde girl dipped into a curtsey before parting ways with the princess, Lysandra off to return to her mother and sister, while Seraphine slipped into the room before her.

Gathered around a small table sat four women, each with their own sort of beauty that somewhat unnerved her. There was another blonde girl, her face round and innocent like a babe's, cheeks rosy and a smile so sweet she could have men on their knees for the sake of preserving it. The girl wore a fine pale blue gown, embellished with silver stones, and she had her ankles crossed, sipping a cup of tea, her lips curled from behind the porcelain at something another had said. Seraphine shifted by the doorway and a lovely woman with elven features hopped up from her seat, "Oh! Please, do come in," she looped an arm through Seraphine's elbow and lead her over to one of the chairs, stepping away to pour some of the hot herbal liquid into a cup for her. She had a bright, infectious smile on her stunning face and Seraphine briefly wondered if she even stood a chance against such a woman, and with a glance around the room, she found each of the ladies posed a similar threat. But nonetheless, she smiled back at her, and she continued her tirade, "My name is Guinevere Doreau, my husband is Lord Tristian, Ambassador of Corrac, and I am Princess Lysandra's lady."

Seraphine let out a quiet sigh of relief at the revelation that she was not, in fact, one of the Selected, and her eyes met with woman, her hair a light brown, in the back who had a look of understanding painted on her across her kind face. It seemed Seraphine was not the only one comforted by this discovery. Guinevere handed her the cup, and she settled back into her own spot, "Queen Nerissa asked me to instruct girls in need of lessons on how to be a lady, and manage the seventeen of you while you stay in the palace," she leaned forward, her eyes electric with intrigue that left her feeling as though she truly cared for what the blonde girl spoke of, "So, darling, what is your name?"

Swirling the tea around in her cup, Seraphine told them, and the others introduced themselves as well. The other blonde was Imogene Graeson of Criston, her father held the title of Marquess, something it seemed the lady was adamant about prefacing with. The other two were Minerva Clavell, a teacher from Tyriens, the girl with the light brown hair, and Colette Lylian, the Selected from the capital city itself.

They slipped back into conversation past the formalities, speaking of everything and yet nothing at all. Guinevere asked each of them polite questions about their pasts, all shallow and a mere formality. It seemed Colette, Seraphine learned, had spent several months in Tyriens with the best tutors the city could offer, and so she and Minerva each spoke of their favorite places there, tossed out names that meant little to Seraphine herself, but left the latter's face shimmering with admiration. Eventually, Imogene grew tired of being thrust into the outskirts of the conversation and tilted her head in Seraphine's direction, interrupting the two brunettes in one of the quieter moments, "Seraphine," she began, reaching forward for the kettle to refurbish her cup, "You mentioned your father trains charioteers?" When she nodded, Imogene frowned slightly, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, the authenticity of which she could not quite place, "How is it you behave like nobility then? I can't imagine you've had access to tutors or a true reason to need to curtsey well."

Anger blossomed in Seraphine's chest, a small flower rooted into her chest, but one she refused to cultivate. She stomped it out with the sole of her foot, and straightened her spine, while Minerva simply raised an eyebrow, curious as to how the conversation would turn. However, Colette rolled her dark eyes, her annoyance blatantly sewed into the sleeves of her gown, "Oh please," she sighed, "_Lady _Seraphine aspires to marry well, same as you. That requires perspicacity in the workings of the court, no matter what class one comes from originally," the other blonde looked taken aback by the snide remark, and she opened her mouth to counter, but Colette continued on, "You'd do your best to learn not to underestimate those beneath you, Lady Imogene, sometimes they have more to fight for and have a willingness to go to the more extremes."

The slight gratitude Seraphine felt for the intimidatingly beautiful dark-haired girl vanished at the insinuation that she was beneath her, but Guinevere stepped in before the argument could persist further, one that might lead the ladies at each other's throats before the end of their first evening at the castle. "You all will be given equal opportunity to learn proper manners as the Selection proceeds. I will ensure _everyone _has the same knowledge as to how to behave in court so that they are not at a disadvantage."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the five girls, and after a time, Minerva shifted her body to face the ambassador's wife, "What is with all the servants running around the palace? I understand accommodations must be taken care of for us Selected, but I do not believe we are in need of that much wine, or rather any at all in our rooms."

The tension in Guinevere's shoulders relaxed at the change of subject and her elegant smile glided back onto her features, "There is to be a ball tomorrow eve, to officially begin the Selection. It will be there that you all will have the opportunity to meet and speak to the princes for the first time, until then, Prince Arran and Prince Lucas have been instructed to remain in the areas of the palace off limits to you girls for the sake of maintaining some of the royal family's privacy. By then, everyone should have arrived, though I fear the lady from Dagda might not be given the same luxury you are to relax much before the party begins."

* * *

**Wooo, sorry for such a late update. For a while, when I would sit down to write, I'd just get super distracted. But here we are! The first introduction of some of the Selected girls, chosen based on their city's proximity to the castle. More will be introduced next chapter, and they will also have the opportunity to meet with the princes. **

**This will be my form of interviews, because let's be real, interviews are kind of boring, for me to write and for you to read. I don't think anyone wants to sit through that, especially because with two princes, there would be twice the number of interviews. So, this is how we're doing it instead! The next two chapters will be about the ball, one will have Arran's POV and the other will have Lucas', I forgot which I had planned first, but the ball will be told from each of their perspectives. **

**I found another song I liked and ended up making a second trailer that I've also put on my profile, feel free to watch it! **

**That's all I got for now, I read over this once but didn't heavily edit it, so as always, I apologize for any mistakes I did not catch.**

**-Hailey**


	4. As the Song Lifts, the World Tilts

As the Song Lifts, the World Tilts

"Be my true fortress  
Shield from my foe  
Keep me in reverence  
And lay thy head low."

-Tommee Profitt

* * *

A mirror was propped up in the corner of the room by some guest that had come and gone. Perhaps it had fallen off the wall and they had not bothered to lift it back up, or perhaps it had simply never made it up there in the first place. Either way, it still served its purpose. The witch twisted her neck over her shoulder to watch herself through the layer of grime on the glass, her calloused fingers lacing up her corset as tightly as she could without assistance.

She considered slipping up the stairs, out of the small, dank hole she resorted to living in, and asking one of the maidens who ran the establishment for aid, but she'd promised her brother to keep her head down, to not stir up curiosity. Once she did, he'd said, the bloody hounds will not rest until they've sniffed her out. Thus, she did what she was told, stayed in the basement rather than in one of the normal rooms to avoid intrigue: stay out of sight and stay out of their minds.

With a sigh, Marsali dropped her hands down to her sides and fell back onto her bed. She'd hoped to acclimate quickly, spending three years with only Arran for company should've counted for something, after all. Loneliness was a pool she'd fell into so frequently that she'd learned how to swim to keep herself from drowning. And yet it was so much easier to float leagues away from the rest of the world, easier when she at least had her twin there to ground her.

Now, she'd slip into the dark wig, slip into a new identity, and wander the streets only when necessary, wondering when she might slip out of her sanity and into the monster her country had made her out to be. Even from the outskirts of the city, she could spot the castle off in the distance. She walked the same streets she had as a child when she and Arran snuck out after supper, when they had nothing better to squander their time with.

Still, the place that had long been her home simply hung like a menacing shadow in the distance. The word _home _itselflodged in the back of her throat and, try as she might to cough it up, it held firm. Once, she'd managed to speak the first letters, but when she spat it out, blood splattered her mattress along with it, her throat raw and aching at the effort. Since then, she hadn't bothered to try again.

A home no longer, Marsali gazed upon the castle with new eyes. The distance forced her to see it for what it truly was: a dreadful mockery of the misfortunes of others. But despite this contempt, she continued to find herself drawing near into the treacherous waters. Any man or woman might recognize her and end the life Arran had so desperately tried to save, yet longing tugged at her heartstrings. There was a certain temptation to it, to forgo everything her brother had done for her, to stroll through the castle gates and into her father's court. Ultimately, the game could come to an end. Either Marsali crowned the victor, or she'd find herself in a grave dug with her own bare hands. But she'd grown tired of the pretending, of knowing that Lucas, Lysandra, and Sela believed that she had died. Often, she found herself indulging in the prospect of no longer forcing them to trust a lie.

Guilt ate away at her, it tore into her gut and deconstructed her spine until she was a boneless sop of nothing floundering on the dirt for a measly scrap of existence. So here she remained, in the basement of a brothel as she prayed no one would mistake her for one of the courtesans above.

Lying on her back, arms splayed across her mattress, Marsali shut her eyes and Lucas entered her room. Her memory did not do him justice, not in the slightest. Three years dulled his features, morphing his bright cobalt eyes and his broad nose into barely distinguishable remnants of a face. All the same, she would recognize her younger brother anywhere. She watched as the space where his lips would be parted, the shadows of his eyebrows arching down as neither could quite believe the other stood before them. On opposite ends of the room, Marsali and Lucas stared at each other, each blinked furiously to reaffirm that this was their reality, not some cruel fiction woven through the intricacies of the mind. Both were still there by the time they stopped, and at long last, their feet took off. The siblings crashed into a tight embrace, the smell of wood ash and sweat clinging familiarly to his skin.

Tears she'd forbidden herself to shed welled in the corners of her eyes, and Lucas gripped her tighter, the subtle heaves of his chest her only indication of his own emotions. "Is it really you?" He muttered, his voice cracked and muffled - a broken string on the violin.

She passed a hand over his head, pushing back his dark auburn curls and pressed her lips to his cheek, tears leaving a trail down her own, "Yes, I'm here, _I'm here_," her voice trailed off, repeating those two words countless times in attempts to convince her younger brother as well as herself.

When she opened her eyes, Lucas was gone. The deep pit in her stomach grew and Marsali pulled herself to her feet, brushing her fingers beneath her eyes to wipe away the moisture. She drifted over to a bowl positioned upon the small table where she dined alone each morning, afternoon, and evening. Hands dipping into the water, she splashed her face and then gripped the rag beside it with white knuckles. She'd imagined the same scenario over and over again, nothing changed, and yet her neither one of her brothers burst through the door, and she didn't imagine they would.

With a resigned sigh, Marsali dried her face and returned to the mirror, determined to finish dressing herself for another day in solitude.

* * *

Regret wallowed in the pit of Lucas' gut. It churned until it thickened and forged a permanent home inside of him. He tried to ignore it, tipping back his goblet and letting the liquid burn a path down his throat. Cobalt eyes grazed over the gathering crowd – from the orchestra on one end to the other where Lysandra hovered around Arran as though if she blinked he'd vanish again. At the sight of his brother, the older prince's shoulders tense and his jaw tightened, the younger snatched up another cup, trading the empty one for a new full one. It would take more than one glass to numb the nausea. With a shudder, Lucas picked up the fragments of his carefully manicured façade, slipping each shard back into its place. Only then did the nerves wash off his handsome features, replaced instead by a lazy smile: one many men and women often believed to run much deeper than simply the surface.

"The ladies should be here any moment," the quiet voice echoed in his ears, a saccharine melody dripping from rouged lips, and the tips of fingers brushed up against the small of his back. Lucas tilted his head to the side, meeting Guinevere's oceanic irises. Her lips curling into an elvish smile, she brushed a tawny curl off her shoulder, "You aren't too nervous, are you, Your Highness?"

Lucas forced a chuckle and raised a hand up to his chin, his thumb running along the edge of his jaw, scratching against the shadow of a beard, and the lie slipped off his tongue with ease, "Not at all. Seventeen young women vying for the attention of me and my brother?" he cracked a wider grin, mirth seeping into his features, "Lady Doreau, that is simply a normal evening at any old ball." Swirling the blood red liquid around in his cup, he averted his gaze as Guinevere laughed. Instead, he watched his drink splash up against the silver rim. Their amusement died down and the pair settled into a terse silence. As he gathered his wits, Lucas swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Speaking of marriage," lowering his voice, he turned to directly face the lady, his back on the rest of the court, "how is your dear husband fairing?"

The mention of Tristian poisoned the smile still gracing her delicate mouth and she frowned, her words barely above a whisper, "We need to talk about that."

Lucas took a sip from the glass of wine, his eyes shifting to examine his periphery, "I don't disagree with you there, but how? We're both under heavy scrutiny. I can hardly walk –"

Cutting him off, Guinevere placed a hand on his forearm, "I know, I know, just…come tomorrow after my lessons with the girls. No one will fault you for wanting to check in on the progress of the Selection."

Someone behind Lucas cleared their throat and he turned, the practiced welcoming smile returning. It twitched, faltering slightly, as he faced a taller man. Eyes widening a fraction, the prince watched as their new companion dipped into a bow, his long hair shielding either side of his face. "Ambassador," Lucas greeted, and Jon Cossa grinned at him, the expression wolfish and lacking any true friendliness.

His attention flickered between the man and the woman, "Your Highness," he tilted his head to the side and squinted his eyes, "Are you sure it is a wise idea to be speaking to Tristian's wife in private, all things considered?"

Lucas' cheeks ached, but he forced the expression in place, "I was just asking Lady Doreau about the Selection, she is, of course, their tutor." Guinevere, however, did not take too well to the Illyrian ambassador's attention, quickly excusing herself and abandoning the prince to face the man on his own.

As she departed, Jon's eyes followed, and without even bothering to look at him again, he spoke, "Yes, about that, I don't entirely agree with that decision. Simply foolish, if you ask me. Both with your little scandal and the simple fact that Lady Doreau simply hasn't been in court as long as, say," he brandished out his arms, his gaze finally focusing on the prince again, "Lord Costaine le Maistre's wife? She is far more sophisticated, and I do believe I should've had a vote in this matter."

The prince's brow furrowed as confusion welled up in his gut. Lately, it seemed, his father kept him out of the Ambassador's dealings altogether. Gone was King Myron's desire to educate his son on the workings of the court, gone the moment Tristian caught him and Guinevere, and gone the moment he learned the eldest Savos son might still be alive. Jon Cossa's expectance, therefore, of Lucas having any sort of dealings or hand in the choosing of the ladies' tutor seemed utterly preposterous, "That is something you might wish to take up with Lord Nikolaus, he will give you a far more suitable answer than I ever could. All I can say is that I believe it was a matter of importance, one needed to be decided on quickly, and you were off dealing with business in Illyria."

Whether that business had to do with the benefit of the crown, or the benefit of the pirates stationed in the Ambassador's port, Lucas couldn't say. Try as he might to understand the Labyrinthian workings of Illyria, she seemed far more complex and even strict than that of the capital city herself. Almost entirely autonomous – perhaps from the pirates, brothels, bandits, and the whispers of illegal gladiatorial rings – Lucas wondered if Kreonis was more ally than sovereign to the port city. Jon Cossa, it seemed, was practically a king in his own right. Though born from nothing, as the city's ambassador, he possessed more power over the inner workings than even the governor.

With a calloused hand, decorated with thin white lines and a crooked finger, Jon snatched the goblet from the Prince's grasp, tipping it back with one gulp. A look of disgust crossed his features as he pressed it against Lucas' chest, "You really should start serving something stronger at these events," he cleared his throat, as though he hoped to smooth his gravelly voice for a simple sentence, and he beckoned the prince to follow him, "Come, I can't seem to find Lady Aceline in this crowd, but I suppose there is someone else I can introduce you to."

Refusing Ambassador Cossa had always been a fruitless adventure, one that often ended in some threats from his side for he knew, and reveled, in the fact that even King Myron quivered before him. So, Lucas followed, annoyance twitching in the depths of his irises. After some weaving through the crowds, the prince smiling and passing quick hellos to other nobles while Jon kept his head up, refusing to so much as utter a word to even his fellow ambassadors, the pair stopped behind a girl with silver white hair tied up in some intricate braid. "Lady Aelyn," The ambassador shot Lucas a sly smile, gone by the time the girl spun around, and recognition clicked in the prince's mind.

Before him was one of the girls from which he was meant to pick his wife. The first he'd actually met. Aelyn focused her attentions on Jon, hardly noticing the prince beside him, as she dipped into a curtsey, her lovely face brightened with a sweet smile, "Ambassador Cossa!" foreign violet eyes examined his attire, from the long leather jacket to the beads dangling from his neck, and she raised an eyebrow, "I see you didn't bother dressing up for this event."

With a shrug and nothing resembling an explanation, Jon at last acknowledged the other man's presence, turning towards Lucas and then back to the lady, "Prince Lucas, may I introduce Lady Aelyn Frey. Lady Aelyn, meet Prince Lucas Savos."

She curtseyed, her motion practiced and near second nature, unlike what he'd expected from many of the girls, and Lucas pressed a kiss to her knuckle. He straightened and turned to say something to Jon, but the man had vanished into the crowd, so he simply chuckled, curiosity getting the better of him, "If I remember correctly, you are not the candidate from Illyria, so how is it you came to meet the Ambassador?"

With a light beam, the fair-haired girl bowed her head slightly, "You do remember correctly, Your Highness, my family has an estate in Yaeil, it is where I've lived all my life, but my father resides in Illyria, it is, after all, perhaps the best place for a merchant to be."  
Lucas nodded in accord, with an added in "that it is" before he wracked his brain for further conversation, settling for a rather shallow understanding of her family than a deeper exploration into her own personality – there would be plenty of time for that later – "You mentioned your father is a merchant, what kind is he?" Of course, Lucas had heard of the Frey family. When Arran left, Lucas poured over books, detailing all the houses of interest, and at the announcement of the Selection, he was sure to dive deeper into the backgrounds of the girls. Whatever records the royal libraries had of the families, the prince had poured over. That knowledge, however, tended to unnerve those he made acquaintance with, so he'd learned to simply ask again, pretend he hadn't known to begin with.

Aelyn chuckled quietly, "I don't deal too much in my father's business, I prefer literature or the arts far more than the politics. Though, I do believe he works with raw materials, many of which imported from our homeland."

Before he could press any further, another girl rushed up to them, and as Aelyn turned to face her, Lucas could've sworn he noticed a flicker of callous annoyance in her eyes before they returned to the softened, friendly glow. "Imogene," the Frey girl smiled, welcoming her like an old friend rather than a new associate. Imogene tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear, a look of pleasure washing over her youthful features, as though she were a child who finally drew her mother's attention. However, her name rang familiar in his mind, the face as well.

Finally, it dawned on him, "Lady Imogene Graeson?" he asked, and she beamed at him, bobbing into a curtsey. As the daughter of a Marquess, she'd ventured down for several other royal balls, and while they'd exchanged pleasantries on a couple occasions, he'd never spent much longer than a few moments talking to the girl.

"Your Highness, my sincerest apologies if this is improper, but I was hoping you might join me for a dance," her baby blue eyes turned pleading to her fellow Selected, a hopeful glint that she hadn't just made an enemy.

Lucas fumbled. He'd had women ask to dance in the past, the directness never bothering him, but there was a certain propriety to it, the appearance of dancing with one of the girls before meeting the rest, and a sympathetic expression passed over his face, "I would love to, my lady, but I believe I should make my rounds first," Her own features fell, though she nodded in understanding, and he excused himself from the pair, not wishing to stay longer on the chance the interaction sunk into an awkward silence. Before he left, he turned a head over his shoulder, a different sort of guilt nagging at him, "Lady Imogene," the girl's head shot up, eyes hopeful, "Do save a dance for me later." She grinned and nodded, turning her chatter to the silver-haired girl beside her, and Lucas wandered off into the crowd.

Each time he passed one of the ambassadors, they insisted on introducing them to their candidates – it was how he'd acquainted himself with the kind-hearted, though timid Lady Sara Torteval and the strong-willed and diplomatic Lady Khassia Zvereva. But then, Lord Willard Yates, after forcing him to endure a long-winded conversation about the older man's ailments - his aching bones, the lapses in his memory to which Lucas recommended visiting the hospital wing for some kind of draught – the Ambassador of Oros slowly trudged across the floor until they located Lady Isolde Aravan. The Prince had tried to engage, but with the elderly man hovering behind, his breathing heavy, ragged, and smelling thickly of onion, Lucas made a note to speak to her later in the evening more privately. Even his father even dragged him to have a few words with the Lady Colette of Kreonis, yet another one of the Selected he'd met before. On top of the Selected, it seemed to slip other noblewomen's mind that this ball was the introduction of the girls the princes were to pick their wives and that their own daughters were no longer considered available matches for the Savos boys. He met girl after girl, shook hands with noble after noble, and he could feel his façade starting to crack

A never-ending spiral of walking from one end of the room to another, somehow without bumping into his older brother once, Lucas grew weary and took to the outskirts of the ball. He raked fingers through his dark auburn hair, repositioning the crown his mother had insisted both he and Arran wore, and glanced up to find two girls wandering towards him. He steeled himself, reading questions about family professions and reminding himself to smile if he decided to falsely agree that he remembered her from that one singular time they met at some ball years ago in the sea of other noble girls, each one blending in with the next.

But rather than curtsey and compliment his attire or his hair or his features, the darker haired of the two stretched out her arm, a goblet in hand, "We thought you might want this," she explained, heat rushing up into her cheeks as Lucas' face twisted in confusion.

The blonde girl beside her rushed to help, "You looked stressed, Your Highness, and as we figured it was likely our fault, Myla and I thought we might try to do something…even if minor, to help."

Lucas glanced between the two, shocked, and accepted the drink, "Thank you," he muttered, before genuinely smiling at them, "But how could it be your fault, I don't believe we've even met."

The two girls shot each other glances before the blonde spoke again, "This is Myla Ashdown, and well, I'm Seraphine Brighton."

Lips parting in understanding, Lucas scratched the back of his neck, staring down into the cup, "The Selection…you know, I think I might have already had far too much of this if I couldn't make that connection myself." With a quiet chuckle, he straightened his spine and set the cup down on one of the counters. The two girls laughed as well, and, more at ease, Lucas slipped into conversation with them, knowing soon he'd have to part ways and start dancing, but for now he enjoyed the simplicity of it.

* * *

**Helloooooo long time no see. I really don't know why it's taken me this long to do this…really, I don't know. I decided to add in a bit of Marsali, to see what she's up to, and I've actually had that bit written for a while…Sorry if the ball gets a little choppy and awkward, they're not exactly my specialty, especially when the purpose is to introduce more characters. Hopefully, though, it's still enjoyable. **

**Next chapter will be more of the ball from Arran, so if your character wasn't mentioned this chapter, they will be next. **

**I intend to get better with this whole updating speed thing, I swear.**

**Until next time,**

**-Hailey **


	5. I Step Into an Avalanche

I Step into an Avalanche

"I who am on a pedestal  
You did not raise me there  
Your laws do not compel me now  
To kneel grotesque and bare."

– Leonard Cohen

* * *

Lysandra had finally decided that Arran wouldn't vault out the window, vanishing into the depths of the city once more, and had gone to find Sela. Though, not after forcing him to promise to be on his best behavior. Now, standing there alone, in the middle of the ballroom, he felt suddenly that he was sixteen again. A young boy, breeching into the territory of manhood, but still a boy all the same. All gangly limbs and nose too large for his face. He hadn't been unattractive, per say, but even princes had years they'd rather wish to forget. At that time in his life, the halls hadn't seemed quite so unwelcoming, quite so daunting. Perhaps a trick of the eye, a gap in his memory, but he hadn't remembered the castle to be so poorly lit. Back in the years of his childhood, the gilded walls shimmered under the sun's scrutiny. Then, they'd been home, a source of comfort. The chatter of old men and women at these sorts of events had murmured in his ear like a soothing orchestral melody, and Arran had grinned at all the girls who met his eye, eager to dance with at leastone.

Now, however, his eyes never wavered from his father, seated on his throne forged of bones and smoldering ashes. Of course, all hidden beneath a thin layer of red velvet. No one in the court had ever been particularly forthcoming. Three years ago, that strength, vital to kings, still had resonated in King Myron's eyes, even as he'd begun his descent into madness. He'd sat tall, spine straight, shoulders squared, and his hair still bore some of its original fawn shade: a true king, a man to admire, a man Arran _had _admired. Now the tumultuous current of time swept all that admiration away, just as it had the color in Myron's cheeks and the elasticity of his skin. Nothing but a feeble man feigning his own worth sat upon that throne before him.

Arran's grip on his chalice tightened, knuckles blanching, and his jaw ticked. A certain yearning clawed at his mind, to fumble for any sort of weapon he might brandish against the king. The dual burden of patricide and regicide would be a small price to pay for his sister's freedom.

"Prince Arran? Are you alright?"

At the sound of the concerned feminine voice, Arran pulled himself from his stupor, blinking in surprise and turned to find a girl, sweet-faced with wide viridian eyes. He frowned slightly and glanced around the room as if in search of where she'd come from. A momentary lapse, it all came rushing back seconds after: the Selection and the seventeen women that Lucas had forced upon the both of them. Arran blinked again, shaking his head to banish any other thoughts, "I'm fine, thank you, just a little lost in my own head, I suppose," with a brief pause, he regarded her again, hoping to milk any sort of familiarity from her features that might lead him to her identity. But, nothing. Three years in hiding had left his propriety dusty and starting to rust, but Arran still managed to shift his expression into an apologetic one before proceeding, "I don't think I know you, what's your name?"

Her lips quirked up into the whisper of a mischievous smile, and she tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, "Now, if you already knew me, don't you think that would defeat the purpose of this party? And where would be the fun in that?"

It amazed him how easily he could slip back into this comfortable banter, how welcomed it was to the servants muttering gossip behind his back or Lysandra demanding answers he couldn't give. Arran even chuckled, nodding his head in agreement as he raised his cup up to his lips and sipped lightly, "You make a valid argument, but that doesn't take away the fact that I still don't know your name and you clearly know mine. I think that seems a bit unfair, don't you?"

With a wave of her hand, she brushed him off and plucked a glass of wine of her own from a servant carrying a tray, "Fairness is a fool's errand. We focus so much on wanting things to be fair. Say, our sibling gets a toy, then we want a new toy. Or, if we see a vendor give a person a loaf of bread for free from his cart, we think it only _fair_ that he should give one to us as well. But maybe our sibling has always had fewer toys than us, always sacrificed their dolls for us, and we already had our own pristine dolls. Or maybe that person on the street hasn't eaten all day, but you had a lavish meal that morning. Sure, there is a sense of equality in demanding a loaf of bread for yourself, but no equity at all. Me telling you my name would make us equal, but perhaps I like being the mysterious sort, and you have a lavish array of other names to discover, so it certainly would not make us equitable."

As she spoke, Arran tried to keep his brows from furrowing, his mind racing to keep up with hers and decipher the differences she spoke of for himself. It was admirable, truly, and he grinned at her, but it remained a conversation Lucas would be better suited for. Despite Arran's years of tutoring under Nikolaus' watchful gaze, his own mind had not seemed as capable of grasping intangible subjects. A sword in his hand, feeling the weight of the steel pressing into his palms – there he had skill. So, rather than debate further, as she no doubt would've enjoyed and his brother no doubt would've done, he pointed a thoughtful finger in her direction, "You're the candidate from Tyriens, aren't you?"

A flicker of disappointment seemed to flash in her eyes, but she quickly masked it with an appreciative smile, dipping into a low curtsey, "I suppose the jig is up then. I'm Minerva Clavell, it's a pleasure to officially meet you, your highness."

His nose wrinkled at the title, and he swallowed the biting comment that threated to bypass his lips. Oh, how he yearned to carve it out of his identity with a blade, to watch it crumple away and fade into oblivion. He'd tried once before, but the moment he stepped back into the castle, he'd wordlessly allowed for the court to stitch the gaping wound shut, "Please, just Arran," he managed instead, a polite alternative to the series of other remarks at the back of his tongue, as he forced up any and all recollection he had of his mother's lessons on decorum, "I've enjoyed talking to you, Lady Minerva, and I hope we can do it again soon, but I think I better join the rest of the party, discover the other names from my lavish array as you put it," resisting the sudden urge to wink at her, as he might've in the years before though now seemed entirely inappropriate, Arran parted ways with Minerva.

As his back turned, he downed the rest of his drink and reminded himself of Marsali, tucked away beneath a brothel, struggling to grasp onto what little life she could. That was the thing, surviving and living were two entirely different entities, often used interchangeably with one another as if hunting in the middle of winter to keep from starving were the same as someone placing a hot bowl of soup before him. Despite his efforts not to, his lips twitched up, finally comprehending, not just understanding, what Minerva had spoken of.

Gaze passing over the room, Arran spotted Lucas, though his brother kept his back turned. He only watched for a moment, afraid the longing he had not right to feel would crawl up his gut again. Longing for a relationship he'd snapped with his own two hands. For, ever since that moment in the throne room, the younger Savos son had refused to speak to him, practically ignored his existence altogether.

If Arran were a loyal and pious man, he'd fall upon his knees and utter his prayers, pleading the gods to grant him his brother's forgiveness. He'd wish for Lucas to see through his eyes and understand that everything he'd ever done, every mistake he'd made that left his younger brother riddled with betrayal, he'd done to protect their sister. But, like many others in the city walls, like many others around the entirety of the realm, he suspected the emptiness in the heavens. Only a gaping chasm in the sky where their gods might have resided overlooked the kingdom of Draiocha now. Perhaps they were dead. Perhaps they'd turned away from their vile creations, too horrified to continue their aid, or perhaps they'd never existed at all.

So, no. Arran would not pray; he doubted he ever would again. Instead, the runaway prince shot one last forlorn glance in Lucas' direction before approaching a pair of women, one with golden hair and the other with onyx, towards the outskirts of the crowd.

They were both grinning, standing close together like old friends as they laughed and chatted with one another. A touch of guilt gnawed at Arran for interfering, but he shoved it down. He had a part to play, had to grant his father this slight victory and play along with the game Lucas had initiated. "Sorry to interrupt," he started, slipping a smile over his features, "I realized we're nearly halfway through the night and I have yet to talk to the majority of you ladies. You two seemed like a good start," after a moment's pause he added on and forced himself to bow slightly, more of an incline of the head than anything, "I'm Arran."

The two girls stared at him for a moment, eyes flickering to his blazing auburn hair before settling back on his face. As her warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners, the blonde one beamed at him, "Oh, of course you are!" In quick practiced motions, the two of them dipped into curtsies while Arran scratched the back of his neck, still not accustomed to his return to regality. When they stood again, the blonde gestured to herself and then to her companion, "My name is Pippa Deveraux, and this is Sellina Alisceon, it's so wonderful to meet you."

Watching these two girls, Arran couldn't deny that they were both stunning in opposing manners. Where Pippa wore her smile like the sun, radiant and kind, with her hair the golden rays, Sellina bore more resemblance to the moon, her hair like a shroud of midnight, and her smile laced with something a bit more mysterious, a bit more solemn. But that was as far as Arran permitted himself to look. Appeasement, that's all this party was. Arran had no intentions of following through, had no intention of securing himself a bride, marrying and claiming the crown. So, he shut the part of him that demanded he venture out into the night to shine light on all that concealed and locked it away. Straightening himself, he tilted his head curiously at Sellina, "Alisceon?" he asked, the familiarity of the name taunting him, dangling the memory just out of arm's reach.

"Yes," she answered, her voice silken and mellifluous, rich with the accented tenor of nobility, "My father is the Archduke Tybout Alisceon," at the words, his lips parted as it clicked into place, but when she continued again, her tone took on a more cautious edge, "We've actually met before? Though it was many years ago, I do not fault you for forgetting. So much has happened since."

Arran winced ever so slightly, nodding in agreement, but then he focused his cobalt gaze once more. Unfortunately, it did nothing to jog his memory. He'd met a great deal of noble children as a boy, though only begun to care once his interest in girls set in, "Indeed…Maybe it will come to me later, that sort of thing always does."

With a halfhearted smile, she bobbed her head, and Pippa rested a gentle hand on her arm: a gesture he thought far too intimate for a pair who'd just met the day before. He squinted, glancing between them curiously, "Have you two met before?"

Sellina relaxed and smiled at the girl beside her while Pippa grinned, "Oh yes," the blonde said, the joy in her tone utterly infectious, "Selli and I met when we were little. Her father came to Corrac on business and was meeting mine at the bank, so we ended up running into each other at the marketplace just outside. Kept in touch ever since."

A tinge of envy blossomed in Arran's gut. Beyond Marsali, who was stuck with him from birth, friendships did not come easy to him. Charisma blessed Lucas, not the older of the boys. Crowds would hang on his brother's every word, utterly charmed by his persona, while Arran knew most considered him explosive. People had flocked to his brother, smiles on their faces, but they'd always approached him with more caution, "I'm glad the Selection brought you two together, then," he forced the words out, hoping they sounded semi-pleasant, before maneuvering the conversation in another direction, "Pippa," she blinked at him, taken aback with the informality, but he continued on, "You said your father met the Archduke at a bank? Is he a banker then?"

She recovered quickly, nodding, "He is, yes. He owns the business, actually."

"Is that so?"

At the sound of the new voice, Arran turned around to find two other women approaching them. The one who'd spoken smiled as he met her eyes, but it was the other who drew most of his attention. Like himself, his siblings, and his mother, her hair licked like fire around her skull. A similar vibrant shade of red that the Savos children were famous for. She said nothing but bowed her head respectfully in his direction. Meanwhile, Pippa's eyes lit up as she saw the both of them. Arran started to make a note to himself to remind Lucas to talk to her but scratched it out before he had even written more than one imaginary letter.

"Lady Calipso, Lady Viola, hello! Isn't this party wonderful?" Pippa welcomed as Arran noted both of their names. It wouldn't do him much good, he supposed, since he didn't know which name belonged to which girl.

The first to speak, whether Calipso or Viola had yet to be determined, smiled at her with the slightest edge of hostility, barely detectable to the untrained eye, "It's wonderful," she then turned towards him, "Don't you think?"

As Arran raised his eyebrows, she scrutinized him, assessing his reaction, though it seemed they all were. Sellina and Pippa appeared a bit more concerned, while the redhaired woman watched him with the same acuteness as her companion. He straightened his spine, folding his hands in front of him, "I suppose," he admitted, "though perhaps a little too extravagant for my tastes."

The redhaired woman tilted her head, "I suppose after living in hiding for three years this would seem odd to you. Unless, of course, some noble family took you in, though I doubt that would stay secret."

Discomfort settled over his shoulders, and Arran clenched his fists, nails biting into the flesh on his palms. He could feel Sellina's gaze on his face, could see a twitch of the worry twisting at her lips, but he plastered on his best imitation of Lucas' pleasant expression, "No, I didn't stay with any nobles." Without explaining any further, Arran glanced around, a sudden desire for fresh air clawing up his throat, "Excuse me," he said, his tone curt, already starting to maneuver away, "I should continue my rounds."

Without waiting for a response, he departed the group, snatching up a new glass as he hurried out to the balcony, hoping that it was empty. But, as he'd said before, he believed the heavens were void of anyone looking down on them, no luck smiled upon him. No fortune urged anyone from their seats back indoors. So, he walked right into a group of three girls discussing something about herbs and the outdoors. The moment they spotted him, the conversation died, and one of the girls paled, "You're actually alive," she muttered, hazel eyes wide, and Arran tried not to groan.

Sharing a similar sentiment, the girl beside her frowned, her face scrunching up as if she were struggling to understand the statement, "Are you daft? Of course he is. Why would they have a Selection for _both_ princes if one was dead? It would be a giant waste of everyone's time."

The final girl raised a bemused brow but said nothing while the first blushed a bright shade of crimson, "I-I know that," she stuttered, "he just took me by surprise, that's all."

As she seemed to retreat into herself, mortified, Arran sighed, taking a deep drink from his glass before he flashed her a reassuring smile, "I hope that was an _oh, thank god _sort of 'he's alive' and not _why couldn't he have been dead _sort?"

Her lips twitched up, relaxing a little, "Yes, I'm glad you're alive."

"If you weren't, this would be a lot less fun," the second girl interjected, smirking, and Arran couldn't help but return the expression, pleased at last to not have to walk along the double-edged blade of noble decorum. Patting the spot beside her, the girl started, "Please, sit with us, I'm Hestia from Narah, this," as Arran complied, glad to be off his feet, she gestured to the first girl, "is Ayleth from Vanir, and that," a motion towards the final girl, "Is Alys from Dagda."

Interest piqued; Arran's attention snapped towards Alys. Her own eyes were fixated on him, though he supposed that was something he'd now have to acclimate himself to again, "Dagda, hm? What's it like up there? The furthest north I've ever been is Vanir," he didn't add the fact that his father had forbidden them from visiting the city once talk of rebellion started to brew there. Myron hadn't said as much to Ambassador Cerdric Gehring either, but they all knew it. Fear coated the king's tongue and submerged his eyes at the mention of the disgruntled city. It left him frantic, glancing between his Ambassadors, his councilmen one in the same, for answers. None came. They liked how the fear made Myron rely on them. Arran had saw the hunger for power gleaming within them.

Alys, however, sipped from her own glass, her free arm strewn lazily over the balcony railing, "Cold," she admitted with a shrug. Disappointment flooded Arran, yearning for more information, perhaps about the rebellion itself, but as he glanced around him, to Ayleth and Hestia, he bit his tongue.

"I can only imagine," Ayleth added sympathetically, "Winters are bad enough in Vanir and we aren't even in the mountains yet."

Even as the other girls begun to speak again, Hestia mentioning something about how they should really invest in furs from her hometown, Arran's attention never left Alys. He watched her with interest, though frustrated to no end by the impassive expression over her features. Arran had never been one for games, never one to hide his emotions from people. Eventually, his curiosity won out and he interrupted the conversation, "Alys, would you care to go on a date with me? Tomorrow, after your lessons."

The girls froze, and Alys blinked at him, not so much as showing any inclination towards surprise, "I don't see why not."

* * *

**Hello hello everyone!**

**So, I have no excuse for the lack of chapters the past few months, I am very sorry about that! **

**Here we at last have Arran's perspective of the ball and that concludes it. Hopefully it wasn't too dry, I know interviews of any sort aren't the most exciting. I wanted to make sure I got everyone included and also given that Arran isn't entirely invested in the Selection, they weren't the most deep or revealing conversations.**

**We'll get to all that! I promise. **

**Anyways, to anyone reading this, thank you for putting up with my erratic updates! Hope you enjoyed! I'm actually excited to write the next chapter so hopefully that will be up much much much **_**much **_**sooner. **

**Lastly, I hope everyone is safe and doing okay in quarantine! And if you have any questions, ideas for your girl that you just can't seem to shake (I know that sometimes happens to me), or whatever, please feel free to reach out to me over pm or over discord!**

**That's all for now folks, **

**-Hailey **


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